“Eugenia says they cannot cross over until their soul’s work is done, whether on one plane or another, and only then can they take their rest. Some of these wanderers never find release, and they are corrupted, becoming dark spirits who can cause all manner of mischief. These are banished to the Winterlands, a realm of fire and ice and shadows. Only the strongest and wisest of our sisters is allowed there, for the dark ones of that realm can whisper a thousand longings to you. They will make you a slave for power if you do not know how to use and banish them as the elders do. To answer such a fallen spirit, to bind it to you, could change the balance of the realms forever.”
Felicity stops. “Oh, honestly, this is the worst attempt at a gothic novel I’ve ever read. All we’re missing are creaking castle floors and a heroine in danger of losing her virtue.”
Pippa sits up, giggling. “Let’s read on and find out if they do lose their virtue!”
“Today, we were once again in that garden of beauty where one’s greatest wishes can be made real . . .”
“This is more like it,” Felicity says. “Bound to be something carnal here.”
“Heather, sweet-smelling, the color of wine, swayed under an orange-gold sky. For hours, we lay in it, wanting for nothing, turning blades of grass into butterflies with just the touch of our fingers, whatever we imagined made real by our will and desire. The sisters showed us wondrous things we could do, ways of healing, incantations for beauty and love . . .”
“Ooooh, I want to know those!” Pippa shouts out. Felicity raises her voice, talking over her till she shuts up again.
“. . . for cloaking ourselves from the sight of others, for bending the minds of men to the will of the Order, influencing their thoughts and dreams till their destinies shake out before them like a pattern in the night stars. It was all written upon the Oracle of the Runes. Just to touch our hands to those crystals was to be a conduit, with the universe flowing through hard and fast as a river. Indeed, we could only stay for mere seconds, such was its greatness. But when we came away from it, we were changed inside. ‘You have been opened,’ our sisters said . . .”
Pippa giggles. “Perhaps they did lose their virtue after all.”
“Would you allow me to finish, please?” Felicity growls.
“. . . and we felt it, too. We carried our small bit of magic inside us, across the veil into this world. Our first attempt came at dinner. Sarah gazed at her measly soup and bread, closed her eyes and pronounced it pheasant. And so it appeared to be, and tasted of it too, every bite. So good was it that Sarah smiled heartily afterward and said, ‘I want more.’”
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t realize Felicity has stopped reading. It’s quiet except for the sound of water trickling down a wall. “Wherever did you find this?” She’s looking at me as if I were a criminal.
Why, a ghostly urchin led me to it in the night. Doesn’t that ever happen to you?
“The library,” I lie.
“And did you really think it was an actual account of the witching hour at Spence?” Felicity is looking at me in a bemused way.
“No, of course not,” I lie. “I was only having a bit of fun with you.”
“Oooh, the witching hour of the Order. Is that just before vespers or right after music?” Pippa is giggling so hard, she snorts like a horse. It is most unattractive, and I am just horrible enough to take great pleasure in this fact.
“Very clever—you’re quite a wit,” I say, trying to sound good-humored when I feel surly and humiliated.
Felicity holds the diary aloft in mock seriousness. “I have been opened, my sisters. From now on, this shall be our sacred tome. Let us begin every meeting with a reading from this compelling”—she glances my way—“and absolutely true diary.”
This sends Pippa howling. “I think that’s a splendid idea!” She slurs the word so that it comes out splendlid.
“Wait a moment, that’s mine,” I say, reaching for the diary, but Felicity pockets it.
“I thought you said it came from the library,” Ann says.
“Ha! Well done, Ann.” Pippa smiles at her and I’m already regretting the beginning of their friendship. My lie has stuck me here, without the book and a way to understand what’s happening to me, what my visions may mean. But there’s no getting hold of it without telling them the whole truth, and I’m not ready to do that. Not until I understand it myself.
Ann passes the bottle to me again but I wave it away.
“Je ne voudrais pas le whiskey,” I slur in my terrible French-English.
“We’ve got to help you with your French, Gemma, before LeFarge bumps you down in the ranks,” Felicity says.
“How do you know so much about French?” I ask, irritated.
“For your information, Miss Doyle, my mother happens to run a very famous salon in Paris.” She gives salon the French pronunciation. “All the best writers in Europe have been entertained by my mother.”
“Your mother is French?” I ask. My thoughts are a bit foggy from the whiskey. Everything makes me want to giggle.
“No. She’s English. Descended from the Yorks. She lives in Paris.”
Why would she live in Paris instead of here, where her husband would return after his duty to Her Majesty had been completed? “Don’t your parents live together?”
Felicity glares at me. “My father is away at sea most of the time. My mother is a beautiful woman. Why shouldn’t she have the companionship of friends in Paris?”
I don’t know what I’ve said wrong. I start to apologize but Pippa runs right over me.
“I wish my mother ran a salon. Or did anything interesting. All she seems to do is drive me mad with her criticism. ‘Pippa—mustn’t slouch. You’ll never get a husband that way.’ ‘Pippa, we must keep up appearances at all times.’ ‘Pippa, what you think of yourself isn’t nearly as important as what others say of you.’ And there’s her latest protégé—the clumsy, charmless Mr. Bumble.”
“Who is Mr. Bumble?” I ask.
“Pippa’s paramour,” Felicity says, drawing out the word.
“He is not my paramour!” Pippa screeches.
“No, but he wants to be. Why else would he keep paying his visits?”
“He must be fifty if he’s a day!”
“And very rich or your mother wouldn’t be throwing him at you.”
“Mother lives for money.” Pippa sighs. “She doesn’t like the way Father gambles. She’s afraid he’s going to lose all our money. That’s why she’s so desperate to marry me off to a wealthy man.”
“She’ll probably find you someone with a clubfoot and twelve children, all older than you are.” Felicity laughs.
Pippa shudders. “You should see some of the men she’s paraded in front of me. One was four feet tall!”
“You can’t be serious!” I say.
“Well, he might have been five feet.” Pippa laughs and it’s contagious, sending us all into hysterical fits. “Another time, she introduced me to a man who kept pinching my bottom when we were dancing. Can you imagine? ‘Oh, lovely waltz.’ Pinch, pinch. ‘Shall we have some punch?’ Pinch, pinch. I was bruised for a week.”
Our shrieks are animal sounds, loose and rambunctious. They die down to coughing and murmurs, and Pippa says, “Ann, Gemma. You don’t have to worry about such things as impossible mothers trying to control your every waking moment. How lucky you are.”
All the breath leaves my lungs. Felicity kicks Pippa hard in the shin.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?” Pippa makes a show of rubbing her leg.
“Don’t be so touchy,” Felicity says snidely, but when she catches my eyes, there’s a hint of kindness there and I understand she’s done it for me, and I wonder for the first time if we really might be friends.
“How revolting!” Ann has been flipping through the diary. She’s got some sort of illustration in her hands, which she tosses away as if it might burn her.
“What is it?” Pippa rushes over, her curiosity stronger than her pride. We lean in close. It’s a drawing of a woman with grapes in her hair coupling with a man in animal skins, a mask with horns adorning his head. The caption reads, The Rites of Spring by Sarah Rees-Toome.
We all gasp and call it disgusting while trying to get a better look.
“Methinks he’s already sprung,” I say, giggling in a high voice I don’t even recognize as my own.